


A Vain Repentance

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Funerals, Gen, Goodbyes, M/M, Realization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:50:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Michaelis observes the funeral of Ciel Phantomhive. </p><p>(A sequel of sorts to 'The Dahlia' as seen from the butler's eyes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Vain Repentance

_The rock, the vulture, and the chain,/ All that the proud can feel of pain,/ The agony they do not show,/ The suffocating sense of woe._ \- Lord Byron,  _Prometheus_

 

* * *

 

He is watching, perched behind the diaphanous oak leaves stained with raindrops and an overcast grey sky. There is a macabre curiosity thrumming through his veins, to see the final burial of a boy he called master for some nine odd years. Through an indiscriminate mix of sorcery and camouflage, Sebastian Michaelis looks down on the mourners, concealed from prying eyes, unexposed and unrevealed. A procession of black veils and white handkerchiefs stream in steady sorrow; they are led by the countess and her son—a golden haired little boy with his father’s eyes, too young to remember the distant, pale faced man he will one day strive to please.

The intemperate English weather rumbles with signs of thunder and Sebastian is mildly irritated that a storm would occur on a day such as this. The earl was an exacting creature and would have preferred a solemn afternoon of silence and pale sky. The butler reiterates these notions and then gives a wane, passing smile—it will be difficult to leave behind this aesthetic. It has been his favorite one to take up and certainly one of the more amusing masks he’s donned throughout the centuries. 

Ah, the sufferings of mortality, so seen in their sad reality—the more demonic, despotic part of Sebastian that is a monster of hell revels in this sight. He has never taken so dear a contract—a sinner surrounded by so much love. 

It was comical. 

The pathetic, wretched, and despised—those were the ones Sebastian had grown used to but _this._ This selfish, conniving earl who thought only of himself had a spark of goodness that both intrigued and agitated the raven haired demon. His echoless voice resonated through the darkness, piercing Sebastian’s pitiless soul, and inspired something both beautiful and malignant. 

A child’s innocence tainted black.

 

* * *

 

He watches the Indian prince weep great tears and sees the softhearted Weston boy—the blonde haired Harcourt—cry silently, all sounds and whimpers carried away by the unforgiving breeze. The servants are all there, dressed in black, mourning a master who had taken them in and cared for them well. Sebastian knows Finnian has suffered the harshest blow and briefly entertains the idea of enrapturing him to hell—but no. 

Whatever the boy’s grief, he is too good to ever be seduced by the dark temptation of Abaddon. 

Ciel—that selfish, impetuous little brat—enjoyed Sebastian’s games of hostility, each viewing the other as ally and foe. Was it any wonder he would anguish over the earl’s death? His young master had provided him with such logical cruelty and fine entertainment that to see him now, lifeless and gone, provoked a strong reaction that Sebastian did not care to identify. 

What was it about Ciel Phantomhive that brought him, the demon, to such question? 

Was it the boy’s frail kisses—the ones that were cold and sweet and tinged with ceremony? Was it the boy himself, too intelligent for this world but too human for hell? There was no discernible reason for him to be here, observing this strange ritual of death and burial because, at the end of the day, was the boy not another soul? Another meal? Was he not a means to an end that, now achieved, should be forgotten and locked away, never to be reopened for fear of—

Sebastian paused, irritated by the slight torrent of rain that had gathered upon the crowd, blurring their figures to his carnelian eyes. 

What should he fear? The ivory voice would no longer call for him and it was strange to think how precious Ciel seemed under the guise of violet night. How Sebastian’s hands, lips, and tongue would caress the milk pale body, impressing bruises against his skin in the vain hope of marking Ciel as _his_ for all eternity. 

An artifice of routine, the demon decided, when he saw the golden haired countess place a snow white rose on top of the earl’s black embossed coffin. 

The rain fell with heavier grace and when at long last Sebastian could not stand the agitating raindrops, he lifted one hand to feel dry oak wood under his fingertips. 

He blinked, surprised. 

One finger came to brush against his cheek and the dampness that resided there continued to roll down his face in strange succession. 

He blinked again and the sight before him cleared. There was no rain to obscure the image of death and he stared, uncomfortable, as the funeral march continued. 

How strange it was, Sebastian mused distantly, to cry when one felt nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- “Ah, the sufferings of mortality seen in their sad reality” — references Lord Byron’s poem ‘Prometheus’. 
> 
> A/N: I know, I know—this is overly sentimental and I wasn’t going to post it but TheSightlessSniper asked so nicely a few weeks ago that I was like “ah, what the hell” and put it up. 
> 
> Up to you to decide whether or not Seb’s being honest. 
> 
> (Also: I swear I haven’t forgotten about Yayo.) 
> 
> Reviews would be lovely :)


End file.
